


In Soggy Old Cascade

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 06:51:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's judgement concerning women is no better than it has been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Soggy Old Cascade

## In Soggy Old Cascade

by BAW

Author's website:  <http://www.sentinel2000.cwc.net/contents.htm>

Disclaimer: This is a bit of fanfiction set in the universe of The Sentinel. This universe is, of course, the property of Pet Fly, UPN, SFN, and other entities. This story is written for amusement and as a composition exercise; no copyright infringement is intended. Counsel's opinion informs me that this usage falls within the parameters of 'fair use.'

Feedback: lawrence81@iwon.com Please, like it or hate it, say something; it is feedback that helps me become a better writer. Summary: Jim's judgment concerning women hasn't improved; at least now he has someone to help pick up the pieces. A part of the Jacob's Ladder series; the rest of the series is at http://www.sentinel2000.cwc.net/contents.htm Archive: Yes, please, wherever; just tell me. Warning: JimAngst and Smarm. Kudos: My betas; even when I didn't take your advice, I appreciated it. 

This story is a sequel to: "Or the Leopardess Her Spots", part of the "Jacob's Ladder" series. 

* * *

In Soggy Old Cascade  
by BAW 

Winter had come to Cascade, Washington. Leaden skies dropped upon the city loads of mixed rain and snow, interspersed with sleet and hail. When there was no precipitation, heavy, dank fog lay over the city like a soggy wool blanket. 

The short, thirtysomething man crossing the street on this particular Thursday morning to the Central Police Precinct reflected that the one good thing about this weather was that crime was down. Even criminals preferred to be inside sipping hot soup or tea on a day like today. The young man produced a wan smile at the mental image of some rough-looking men sitting around a table polishing their guns, sharpening their knives, discussing techniques of murder and mayhem, all the while sipping at cups of hot liquid. The shock of icy, filthy water thrown up by a passing car dispelled that image. 

"Soggy old Cascade," he muttered, "I'm suprised the whole city doesn't rust shut." 

The young man pulled his scarf closer around his neck, and set his furry hat more firmly on his head; days like this were uncomfortable for him. He had suffered more than his share of broken bones, stabbings, and gunshot wounds in his thirty-odd (some _very_ odd indeed) years of life; changes in weather made the scar tissue swell and contract at different rates than the healthy tissue around it, resulting in a variety of aches. If it were not for the rigorous routine of yoga, ballet and martial arts stretches he followed, he would be moving like a man twice his age. Let his partner snicker as he set up the barre and put the special CD on the stereo---what works, _works_! 

The cold, damp air put strain on lungs weakened by a near-drowning, and he thought wistfully about the stashes of herbal tea he kept both at home and at work; blended by an herbalist in Chinatown, it helped as well as Western drugs, and with fewer unpleasant side-effects. 

He entered the precinct and greeted the desk sergeant; moving to the elevator, he pushed the button for the seventh floor. Under the florescent light, his face took on a corpse-like pallor; the dark circles under his eyes stood out, giving him somewhat the aspect of a weary raccoon. 

The elevator finally reached the seventh floor, and the young man moved down the hall towards the _Major Crime_ department. Upon entering the department, he began to divest himself of his coat, scarf, gloves, walking stick, and hat. The last-named furry object jumped out of his fumbling fingers and fell at the feet of another denizen of the department. The tall, model-handsome man picked up the hat and set it on a desk. He then beckoned a passing uniformed officer. 

"Patrolman, might I borrow your baton for a moment? Thank you." 

He then struck the hat three times with the stick and returned the latter to its owner with a flourish; he picked up the hat between his thumb and forefinger. 

"There, Sandburg; I think its dead." 

"Very funny, Rafe," snapped Sandburg, snatching the offending headgear back with an almost Ellisonian glare, "Just because I don't look like a refugee from Vogue Uomo like _some_ people I could mention is no call to make fun my wardrobe!" He turned to the uniformed officer, who was leaning against the wall, laughing hysterically, "And _you,_ Patrolman Fischer--don't you have somewhere-- _anywhere_ \--else to be right now?" 

"Yes, sir. I'm just going, sir." 

The day went downhill from there. The young man worked at his desk, quickly and efficiently, but growled at any- and everyone who came near him. This was in such contrast to his usual behavior that his co-workers spent as much time speculating as to the cause of his foul mood as doing their own work. Finally, in mid-afternoon, a well-known voice bellowed across the M.C. bullpen those famous words: 

"Sandburg! In my office!" 

The young man dragged himself up and entered the Captain's office as one summoned to the guillotine. 

For all his reputation for ferocity, Captain Banks was not a stupid or insensitive man; he had noticed all week that a) half of his best team had not come in and b) that the other half was looking more and more like death warmed over each day. Upon seeing the woebegone expression on Detective Sandburg's face, all thought of the dressing down he was prepared to give fled from his mind. 

"Sandburg. . .Jacob, close the door. Sit down. Now, would you mind telling me what's the matter?" 

"I don't know, sir," said the curly-haired detective. 

"You don't _know_ why you've been coming in here looking like a zombie and have behaved like a werewolf for the fourth day in a row? This is not normal behavior for you, Sandburg, and I'm concerned." 

"If I knew what was wrong, I'd tell you, sir, but I don't. Jim won't tell me." 

"Something's wrong with Jim? Is he sick?" 

"I think so, sir, but I cant tell." 

"Tell me what you can." 

"Well, sir, you know he was away last week." 

"Right; at the conference in Charlotte; you couldn't go because you had to testify." 

"Exactly, sir. He called me every night, though. Saturday he sounded so _happy_. The Pumas were playing the Sting that night, and he'd managed to snag a ticket. You know he's still going out with one of the players. You've met Maureen, haven't you, sir?" 

"The tall redhead?" 

"Yes, sir. Well, he was going to fly back Sunday, and I was to pick him up Sunday evening." 

"And that didn't happen?" 

"He came in, sir, Sunday morning, early, when I was out. He went straight to bed. Didn't unpack, just left his cloths on the floor. You know how unusual that is. Since then he won't get out of bed. He hasn't said a word. He won't eat. I've fixed all his favorite foods, but . . .nothing. He's not zoned; or if he is, I've never seen a zone like it. He just lies there. I presume he gets up to use the bathroom, but never when I'm around. Captain Banks. . .Simon, I'm worried." 

"Something must have happened in Charlotte." 

"I've talked to everyone I know who was at the conference. Nobody remembers seeing Jim after the last session on Saturday. One of the desk people at the hotel remembered him asking where he could buy a bottle of Champaign. When I put Jim's cloths away I found a velvet box with a diamond ring in it." 

"So, you think he was going to propose to Maureen. And she turned him down?" 

"It must have been more than that to have gotten this reaction. You know the sort of luck Jim's had with women--beginning with his Mother. People think that Jim's a cold, hard, unfeeling man; he isn't, Simon, you know that. He doesn't express his feelings very much or very well, but that doesn't mean he doesn't _have_ them. If that redheaded termagant has hurt him. . . . Simon, I'm scared. I've hidden all the knives and Jim's guns, and my guns never leave my person, even at home; I've cleared out the medicine cabinet and the cleaning supplies." 

"You think Jim's suicidal?" 

"I don't know what to think! I've never seen him react like this! I've tried to get in touch with Maureen, find out what happened between them. The Pumas are still out of town, and I don't know their schedule; I've called their office and asked them to contact her, but she's not called me." 

The young man was not exactly crying, but his voice was rough, and his eyes were shining in a way that suggestd that tears were immanent. 

"Well, Jacob, you've obviously done your best. There's no shame in admitting that you're out of your depth. Let's call Dr. Johnson and see what he has to say." 

* * *

On Friday afternoon a grim-faced convocation met on Prospect. First came Captain Banks and other representatives of Major Crime; he was accompanied (against his better judgment) by his son Daryl. 

_("I don't want you to see your Uncle Jim like that, son." "Dad, I'm not a little kid any more! Uncle Jim's been there when I needed him--he even saved my life, more than once! How can I not be there for him!?)_

Next came the Ellison family, represented by William, Steven, and Rucker; Adian O'Mally was there also--both as a relative and as a mental health professional. Steven was accompanied by his fiancée, Detective Margaret Ross, known to her friends as Maggie. 

Dr. Johnson, the precinct's resident psychologist, had recommended that the people closest to Jim confront him and attempt to arouse him from whatever had him in its clutches, and that if the intervention did not work that he be admitted to Cascade General's psychiatric ward. As Jim's cousin and partner were both master's-qualified behavioral scientists, Dr. Johnson did not think that his own presence would be necessary. 

The visitors trooped up to the third floor of the building; the door to Ellison's loft was opened by a grim-faced Detective B. Jacob Sandburg, who took everyone's hats and coats. 

"No change," he said softly, "He won't talk or eat or even look at me. He just lies there. If he weren't still breathing, I'd think him dead. He's been like this since Sunday." 

"Any word from Maureen?" asked Simon. 

"The Pumas are back in town. I've left messages both at work and at her house. She hasn't returned them. I'm sure she's the cause of this, but that's only a guess; he won't talk to me." 

"How're we going to do this?" asked Joel. 

"I'll go up and try to rouse him. If I'm not down in five minutes, start coming up by ones or twos. Touch him. Talk to him. Tell him what's going on in your life, and ask him about his. Project how much you care about him and how worried you are." 

Jacob climbed the stairs; the others scarcely breathed. Soon they heard his soft voice coming down. 

"Jim, buddy. It's me, Jacob. We've got company. A regular party. All the guys from Major Crime, and your whole family. Yes, your Dad and Steven--and even your cousins. Both Rucker and Adian. Come on, Jim. We miss you. Everyone's been asking for you. Come on, Jim, open your eyes, talk to me. . . . ." 

After about five minutes, Simon came up. Despite what he had been told, he was shocked by what he saw. Jim looked less like Jim than like a waxwork of Jim. He lay in the exact middle of the big bed, flat on his back. Jacob sat on the far side, stroking his arm and forehead, pressing on what Simon vaguely thought might be accupressure points. 

Simon forced himself to talk to Jim as though he were awake and responsive, chatting about current cases and goings-on at the Precinct, but it was hard. In ones and twos the members of Major Crime went up the stairs, with similar lack of response. Finally, William and Steven Ellison came up. Somehow, the presence his father and brother broke something down, and Jim started to weep and talk all at the same time. Those waiting on the main floor heard his voice, but couldn't make out the words. 

* * *

About half an hour later, the Ellisons and Jacob Sandburg came down. Sandburg's face was completely blank. The faces of William and Stephen Ellison were twisted into masks of white-hot fury the like of which was quite familiar to the members of Major Crime. Adian and Rucker, upon seeing this, assumed similar (if less intense) expressions. So much Ellisonian anger made the Loft a distinctly uncomfortable place. 

"He's asleep," said Jacob quietly, "a normal, natural sleep. I've got food to heat up, some of his favorites, for when he wakes. Thank you; you can go home now." 

"Jacob, what happened? What brought this on?" asked Adian. 

William and Steven looked at each other, then at Jacob. 

"Tell them," growled William, "they deserve to know." 

"Well," said Jacob, "as we guessed, he planned to ask Maureen to be his wife. He had the ring and everything. He bought a bottle of Champagne, then went to her hotel. He showed his badge to the desk clerk and identified himself as her fiancé. The clerk gave him a key card. Jim went up to her room, let himself in, and. . . and. . . . ." 

"And found her in bed with another man," snapped Steven when it became apparent that Jacob could not continue. 

"And even worse, " William snarled, "he overheard her talking about him. She was laughing and saying that _'the big dumb cop's great in the sack, but that's about all he's good for.'_ " 

The temperature of the room fell several degrees. Megan and Maggie looked at one another. They got up and laid their guns and badges on the table. 

"We need to have a talk with the slut," said Megan, grabbing her hat and coat. 

"No redheaded hussy treats my brother-in-law-elect like that!" added Maggie, doing likewise. 

"Hey, girls! Wait for me!" said a grim-faced Rhonda, following. 

* * *

The intervenors were gone. Jim slowly came down the stairs. Jacob steered him to the bathroom, where he had laid a set of clean U-WA sweats. Jacob went into the kitchen and removed several items from the refrigerator; relieved by the sound of the shower, he began heating them up. 

When Jim emerged from the shower, he saw the table and counter laden with all of his favorite foods. He ate like the starving man he was. When all the food was finished, Jacob led him to the couch, turned on the TV, and turned on one of the sports channels; fortunately, it was showing a hockey game--Lord knows what basketball would have done to Jim at that point! Jacob returned to the kitchen and cleaned up, then returned to the living room with two glasses of wine. 

"' _Vinum laetifecat cor humanum,'_ " he quoted, "and your _cor_ requires some _laetifec_ ing." 

"Thanks, Chief. I don't know what I would have done without you." 

"Jim, you had me scared. Women have hurt you before, and you've not reacted that way." 

"That's just it. I thought Maureen was _different_. I thought. . .I thought. . . .Chief, what if I hadn't found her with that guy? What if she'd said 'yes' and then. . . after we were married. . . ." 

"Then I'd've been there to pick up the pieces. I'm your Guide. That's what I do." 

"I loved her, Chief, I really did. Or I thought I did. How could I have been so stupid?" 

"Jim, neither of us have a great track-record when it comes to women. Naomi loves me, but as soon as I was old enough to see to my own physical needs, she was off pursuing her dreams; if something happened to me, she'd be sad, but she'd get over it. She saw to it that I was fed, clothed, housed, and educated, but she kept dragging me all over the planet; or, if she took it into her head to go somewhere that even _she_ could see would be unsuitable for a child, she'd dump me with some friend or relative for a few months. Then, when I turned sixteen, she pushed me out of the nest; if I hadn't had early admission to Rainier, I don't know what I would have done. As for girlfriends--well, at first most of the girls at Rainier were four to six years older than me; they treated me like a baby brother. Even when I did get them to see me as a _man_ , they'd throw me over for some big jock type. I had my heart broken so many times I resolved I'd never let a woman get close to me. The few times I did. . . .well, you know what happened." 

"We're a pair, aren't we? My Mother ran off with the tennis pro from the country club. In high school, girls wanted to date me because I was the football hero, or because I was from one of the 'right' families--none of them cared about _me._ There were girls in the Army, but they didn't count. No, I never paid for it, but there are always girls around a military base for whom you just have to buy a few beers and. . . .well, you know. Then there was Carolyn. Just before she left for the last time, I asked her what I did wrong. She told me. At length. She's an educated woman, with a large vocabulary--which she used. Her tongue should be registered as a dangerous weapon. Think of the women I've been with since you've known me. Thieves, assassins, terrorists, drug dealers." 

"Then there's Alex." 

"She's in a class by herself." 

"At least she won't be bothering us again." 

"If she ever gets out of where she is now, she'll be a withered, decrepit hag." 

"Chief, I'm scared. I don't want to end up alone." 

"You won't; I'm here. I can't promise that we won't have any more misunderstandings, disagreements, quarrels, or even fights; we're both stubborn, strong-willed men, and conflicts are inevitable. But I will _never_ desert you while we both live; this is my solemn vow. And, if it is allowed, should I die first, I will stay with you in spirit form," replied Jacob; he reached out and grabbed Jim by the wrist. " _'Entreat me not to leave thee, nor from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I shall go, and where thou lodgest I shall lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God, my God. Where thou diest, I shall die, and there shall I be buried. My trust is in the name of the Lord, our God--nothing but death shall divide us.'_ Even as the soul of David was knit unto the soul of Jonathan, so that they became as one soul, so be my soul knit unto thine." 

Blue eyes met blue. Jim's mouth worked soundlessly for a bit, but then he ground out, "Jacob. . ." 

"That, Jim, is the first time you've called me that since I decided to drop _Blair_." 

"Yes, I know, Jacob. I miss Blair, and I always will. But I've learned to care for Jacob. We make a good team. Achilles and Patroclous; Alexander and Hephaistion; Damon and Pythias; Roland and Oliver; Arthur and Launcelot." 

"Leave those last two out. Remember what happened to them. There'll be no Guinevere for us." 

"No, never." 

"James and Jacob." 

"Be it so. Sentinel and Guide." 

"Warrior and Shaman." 

"Unconquerable." 

"Inseparable." 

"Unto death." 

"And, if Heaven allows, beyond." 

"So mote it be." 

When Maggie and Megan came back to collect their guns and badges, they found the Sentinel asleep under his Guide's watchful gaze. 

* * *

_Epilogue:_

The next day, Maureen showed up for practice moving like an old woman. She had a black eye, a split lip, a swollen ear, and bruises all over her body; her hair had been cut short. She refused to say what happened. 

The Ellison Corporation cancelled its skybox for the Pumas. 

Jacob sought Rafe's advice about a new winter hat. 

Maggie asked Megan to be her Maid of Honor. 

Jim came back to work Monday, restored to his old, grumpy self. 

And all was well in soggy old Cascade. 

* * *

End In Soggy Old Cascade by BAW: lawrence81@iwon.com

Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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